Chapter 13

After some twenty minutes, Holmes reappeared looking much like himself although I thought I could still discern a slight limp.

“Come on, old fellow. Grab your coat. And if you would be so kind, perhaps you would bring your service revolver as well.”

After fetching my pistol, I descended the stairs to discover that Holmes had already hailed a cab. Soon I realized we were headed in the general direction of the British Museum. “Are we going to see Dr. Smith?” I asked.

Holmes chuckled, “I told you we were going to free Mycroft.”

A few minutes later, the cab stopped and we alighted at the intersection of Tottenham Court Road and Torrington Place. When we descended, I noticed Lestrade standing by a gate in the middle of the block, near Alfred Mews. As we approached, he said, “You certainly took your time getting here.”

“It couldn’t be avoided,” said Holmes. “How is Langlois?”

“He went straight home from the park, and, as far as I can tell, he hasn’t budged from his flat since.”

“You’re certain?” asked Holmes.

“No one has gone in or out of the front door while I have been here. I don’t know for certain if there is another entrance, but I imagine there must be.”

“There were supposed to be two of you here just in case of that eventuality,” replied Holmes, casting a quick glance in my direction. “Which is his flat?”

“Number 1, ground floor on the right,” replied Lestrade.

“Since you are the only one with any legal standing, Inspector, would you care to accompany us?”

“I have no legal standing,” replied Lestrade, “I’m still suspended.”

“Yes, but Langlois does not know that,” replied Holmes.

“In for a penny, in for a pound,” replied Lestrade. “There’s little else they can do to me, I suppose.”

“That’s the spirit,” said Holmes in a rather cajoling tone of voice.

Lestrade turned his back and kept guard while Holmes picked the front door lock. Once inside, we made our way to the flat. Lestrade stood on one side of the door and I on the other. Holmes knocked and said, “Mr. Langlois, it is Sherlock Holmes; I have come to talk to you about my brother’s disappearance.”

His announcement was greeted by silence. He rapped on the door again and repeated himself. Once more, stillness reigned.

“You want me to kick it in?” asked Lestrade.

“That won’t be necessary, Inspector.” Holmes again withdrew the small leather case from his pocket, and after selecting a lock pick, he worked his magic and some ten seconds later, he was pushing open the door to Langlois’ rooms. “Mr. Langlois?”

Upon receiving no answer, Holmes entered the flat, followed by Lestrade while I brought up the rear.

We were greeted by the rather macabre sight of Geoffrey Langlois, sitting at his table, ready to enjoy a dinner of bangers and mash—the only thing preventing him was the fact that his head was hanging at an unnatural angle because he was dead.

“What do you make of it, Watson?”

After a quick examination, I said, “I cannot be certain without a proper post-mortem, but I should think that his larynx was crushed and then his neck was snapped. He may not have died immediately, but the crushed larynx would have prevented him from calling out.”

Turning to Lestrade, Holmes said, “You saw no one enter or exit the building after Langlois?”

“At least not through the front door,” said Lestrade.

“See if there is a back entrance which our killer could have employed.”

After Lestrade had left, Holmes said, “We have only a few minutes before the Inspector’s return. Stand by the door and when you hear him coming back, go into the hall and delay him.”

“What am I to say?

“I will leave that to your imagination,” said Holmes. Touching the food on the plate, he observed, “It is still slightly warm, so we did not miss our killer by much.”

“Why did they kill him?”

“Perhaps they realized we had solved the code. Perhaps they were afraid he would talk. It is difficult to say without facts at our disposal, Watson.”

As we spoke, Holmes began examining the few books on the shelves and then he turned his attention to the desk.

At that moment, I thought I heard Lestrade in the hall. Leaving Holmes to his own devices, I stepped outside where the Inspector was heading towards me from the back of the house.

“Is there a rear entrance, Inspector?”

“Yes, it opens onto an alleyway that leads to a backyard with a gate and a passageway to Huntley Street.”

As he tried to move past me, I said, “Holmes thought we should check the first and second floors—and possibly the roof. Just in case . . .”

“I hardly think—” Lestrade started to respond, but I cut him off as I brushed by him and started up the staircase. Thankfully, he soon fell in behind me as I had hoped he might. As expected, the upper floors yielded nothing, nor did the roof.

As we descended, Lestrade remarked, “I tried to tell you this was a waste of time.”

“Perhaps,” said Holmes stepping from Langlois’ room, “but one must never leave any stone unturned.”

“And what are we to do now?” asked Lestrade.

“I think you should report the murder to the nearest constable. Tell him the killer is approximately six feet tall, powerfully built and quite strong. He has light blonde hair, almost white, walks with a pronounced limp of the left leg and is probably Slavic or Russian. That information will not get you your job back just yet, Lestrade, but it may help at some point in the future. Watson and I are returning to Baker Street. Contact me there if you should require anything else.”

As we started to leave, Holmes turned back to Lestrade and said, “One more thing, Inspector.”

“Oh?”

“I would urge you to keep this discovery as quiet as possible. If you can withhold the identity of the victim for a day or two that would help immeasurably.”

“I will do my best, Mr. Holmes, even if I have to call in a few favors.”

“Thank you, Inspector, and by the way, well done today. Your assistance has proven invaluable.”

After we had hailed a cab and given the driver our address, I said to Holmes, “What amazing deductions you arrived at regarding Langlois’ killer. They should go a long way in helping the Yard apprehend him.”

“I rather doubt that,” replied Holmes.

“Oh? Why do you say that?”

“Truth be told, I made most of that up.”

“What?! Why on Earth would you do that?”

“Until we have freed Mycroft, I simply cannot take a chance that Lestrade and his cohorts will stumble across the truth. Better, I think to point them in an entirely different direction than to have them inadvertently blunder into my carefully laid plans.”

“So then you did learn something while I was distracting Lestrade.”

“Let us say that I made three rather interesting discoveries. Shall I enumerate them for you?”

“By all means,” I exclaimed.

“First, I discovered three distinct types of ash in the soup bowl which Langlois had been employing as an ashtray. Second, the keys to the flat door were still in Langlois’ jacket pocket. Third, inside a leather case in his jacket pocket, I discovered a rather strong pair of reading glasses.”

“That’s it?!” I exclaimed. “You learned that he was a heavy smoker with poor eyesight.”

“Don’t forget the keys, Watson,” said Holmes soothingly, “I find that fact perhaps most telling of all.”

As we pulled up in front of our lodgings, I admitted to Holmes that I was totally baffled. “It seems to me that for all the progress we appear to have made, we are right back at the beginning. Our primary suspect has been murdered; both Mycroft and Cotton Vitellius A XV are still missing; the smugglers have not been captured; and Lestrade remains suspended.”

“Those are all things I hope to rectify in the very near future,” said Holmes as we entered our rooms. “Now, would you care for a nightcap? We have an important appointment at St. Paul’s in the morning.”

In all the excitement I had quite forgot about Holmes’ arrangements for the following day.

As we sat and talked, I was suddenly struck by the change in my friend’s demeanor. He was no longer anxious; rather, he was the picture of equanimity as he sat there smoking his pipe and sipping his brandy. Although I tried on several occasions to draw Holmes out, he refused to be baited. Rather, he looked at me and repeated a maxim that I had heard on any number of occasions, “You have seen but you do not observe.

“Admittedly, I have a slight advantage in that I was able to examine Langlois’ flat without interference. Still, the fact remains that I have transmitted to you all the salient facts in an unvarnished manner. If you have any questions, I shall be more than happy to answer them; otherwise, I will bid you good night and see you for breakfast at 8 o’clock.”

Holmes looked at me expectantly, but try as I might, I was unable to devise any questions for my friend. After a short but uncomfortable pause, I said, “Good night, Holmes.”

When I made my way to breakfast the next morning, I found my friend waiting for me. “I took the liberty of asking Mrs. Hudson to prepare coffee, eggs and a rasher of bacon for you. It should be here momentarily.”

He then returned to the paper he had been reading. “Anything interesting?” I inquired.

“The Times has a small story about the arrival of Theophile Declasse, the French statesman, who is staying at the Savoy. Fortunately, he has led the reporter to believe that he is simply here on holiday.”

“It appears as though you were correct about where Mycroft would ensconce the various delegations.”

“Half right, at least,” replied Holmes. “There is nothing here about the Russian representative.”

My breakfast arrived and as I was eating, I saw Holmes glance at his watch on three occasions. Finally, my friend exclaimed, “Do hurry, Watson. It is nearly half past the hour, and we must make certain we arrive at St. Paul’s on time.”

After we had descended the stairs and hailed a cab, I turned to Holmes and said, “May I ask what is so special about this meeting at St. Paul’s.”

Holmes merely looked at me in an uncomprehending manner and then he replied, “Surely you jest,” before he lapsed into silence.

The tallest structure in London, St. Paul’s Cathedral is certainly one of the most beautiful houses of worship in England and perhaps all of Europe. I will not bore readers here with the storied history of the building, although if truth be told, I was rather excited to be visiting it. Like so many Londoners, I confess to having taken this masterwork for granted. Once as a youngster, I had been taken inside, but I had not returned since.

Aside from the fact that it had been designed by Sir Christopher Wren to replace the previous cathedral which had been destroyed in the Great Fire of London, I knew little else about the building except that both the Duke of Wellington and Admiral Horatio Nelson, as well as Wren himself, had been interred there.

After climbing Ludgate Hill and proceeding along the road that abutted the cathedral, albeit a short distance away, the cab deposited us closest to the South Transept entrance. As we walked towards the magnificent structure, all I could do was admire the beauty of the stunning building and wonder about the views that the upper galleries must afford.

After entering, I whispered to Holmes, “Where exactly are we going?”

He pointed up to the first level and said, “The Whispering Gallery.”

“The Whispering Gallery? What is that?”

“You will soon find out, old friend,” he replied, and I thought I heard him chuckle.

We entered a staircase and began our ascent. After several flights my leg began to throb as my old wound reminded me of my age—and my past. I said to Holmes, “How many steps are there?”

“To the Whispering Gallery or in total?”

“To where we are going,” I said with a tinge of exasperation in my voice.

“There are 259 steps to the Whispering Gallery, of which you have climbed 148. You have but 111 left.” When Holmes said that I felt a definite twinge in my leg. “Should you wish to continue after we have concluded our business there, you have another 117 steps to the Stone Gallery, at which point you can walk outside around the dome, and, if you are still so inclined, just 166 additional steps will bring you to the Golden Gallery. Again, you may walk outside and enjoy unparalleled views of London. I highly recommend it.”

By this time, I knew I was nearing the end of my trek. When we reached the landing, I entered the gallery and slumped down on the bench seat that seemed to encompass the entire dome with an occasional niche that I assumed harbored a door that led somewhere else in the cathedral.

“Wait here, Watson. Keep an eye on all who enter. I am going to sit directly across from you.”

“To what end?” I said, but Holmes either had not heard me, or he had decided to ignore me. Taking stock of my surroundings, I noticed that there were but two other people besides Holmes and myself in the gallery.

Suddenly, a large group of tourists, perhaps twenty-five or thirty people, entered the gallery from the doorway to my left. I could make out the voice of the man serving as their guide as he began to discuss the artwork that adorned the dome. Learning that they were eight scenes from the life of St. Paul, painted by Sir James Thornhill, I found myself listening to the docent as well as snatches of their various conversations when all of a sudden, I thought I heard a whispering voice say quite distinctly, “This is your last warning, Mr. Holmes.” To say I was startled would be an understatement. I looked across and could tell immediately that something had spurred Holmes into action.

Suddenly, I heard the spectral voice a second time, “Remember, Mycroft’s life hangs in the balance.”

When I looked over at Holmes, I saw that he had disappeared. Turning my attention back to the tourists who were now leaving, I could tell that one or two of them must have heard the voice as well. A minute or two later, Holmes was standing by my side, “Did you see who said it?”

“No,” I said. “The only people here besides you and me are those two, the tourists and their docent.”

“Docent? There are no docents yet. The first guided tour is not scheduled to begin until 10 a.m.”

“Well, there was a man talking about the art in the gallery, and I just assumed he was a guide employed by the cathedral.”

“Did you get a good look at him?”

“Not very, I’m afraid. There were tourists blocking my view. However, he appeared to be rather tall and thin. I believe he had a beard, and he had a most distinctive voice.”

“Oh, Watson. I fear I may have gravely underestimated our foe.”

“Why do you say that?”

“You will recall that it was I who arranged the meeting here. I was hoping to use the rather unusual acoustics of the Whispering Gallery to my advantage and take him by surprise. But he has turned the tables on me and delivered one final warning. With the conference scheduled to begin tomorrow, I am afraid we are running out of time.”

“Holmes can you explain how we, as well as a few of the tourists, heard that voice, even though it was a whisper and we were quite far apart?”

Holmes chuckled and then said, “People have known about the strange quirk in this gallery almost since the church was built, but it was only in the 1870s that Lord Rayleigh discovered that sound waves actually ‘creep horizontally,’ to use his words, around the dome, through a process of reflection.”

Having warmed to his subject, Holmes then delivered a treatise as we descended the stairs. Seeing that it distracted him for a few minutes, I indulged him, interrupting now and again to ask a question, the answer to which interested me not in the least. At one point, Holmes even suggested I read The Theory of Sound, which he described as Rayleigh’s magnum opus on the subject. “While there is a great deal of useful information in the first volume, I found the second volume even more illuminating. I have copies of both that you may borrow at any time.”

I promised to put them at the top of the list of books I planned to read—a promise I had no intention of keeping.

He continued musing about the properties of sound all the way through our cab ride to Baker Street. However, as we exited the cab, I said to Holmes, “I know you are worried about your brother, my friend, and you can count on me to do anything you might ask to save Mycroft’s life.”

At that Holmes stood stock still, his hand on the knob to our front door. After about five seconds, he turned slowly to me and said simply, “Thank you, old friend.”

I could tell there was more to his expression of gratitude, but he had already dashed up the stairs as I was turning over what had just occurred in my mind.